The Scarlet Tide
by AFanWhoFeelsThings
Summary: AU. Set in the Old West, 1881. Retired Sheriff Rick Grimes moves his family out to Tucson to escape his notorious law enforcement reputation. He is immediately swept up in a bloody war with the outlaw gang The Saviors, falls in love with a mysterious Creole warrior Michonne, and begins one of the most loyal friendships of his life with the infamous Doc Holliday.
1. vengeance it is, then

_A/N: Hi guys. Firstly, I must apologize. I've had terrible writer's block for a long while, and this was the only thing that could break me from it. Secondly, while Colt revolvers existed in this time, the Python wasn't a thing yet. However, since I'm taking liberties with history to weave this strange tale, I figured...meh. I can't part a man from his pistol, I just can't. I hope you enjoy this, it's going to keep coming, I have a wild ride planned. If you love the movie Tombstone as much as I did, you'll want to stick around for this one. And I promise you **I have not abandoned Vantage Point or Bad Thangs!** I just...needed to get this out. _

* * *

_well I recall his parting words_

 _must I accept his fate?_

 _or take myself far from this place?_

 _why would I want him, just to lose him again?_

 _we'll rise above the scarlet tide_

 _that trickles down through the mountain_

 _and separates the widow from the bride_

\- 'The Scarlet Tide', Alison Krauss

* * *

 **Prologue:**

" **Vengeance it is, then."**

June 5, 1881

 _At the chilly break of dawn on a dirt road* thirteen miles from the homestead of Tucson, Rick Grimes feels his knees begin to ache to the bone._

 _He's been on them for two hours._

 _He is shivering in his marrow, his entire body fighting the shock, grief, and near-paralyzing anger coursing through it. His hair is wet with sweat and morning dew, his eyes watery with tears both shed and unshed. His head pounds, his face marred by a dark, thick streak of drying blood and sinew. His brother's blood. His expression is void of any emotion. Slack, blank. His crystal blues are blown wide and almost unseeing as he relives each blow to his brother's head until there was virtually no head left._

 _The man with the club, the leader of this gang of murderous thugs, laughs. He stalks, unhurried and confident, down the line of kneeling, terrified members of Rick's family. The blood-soaked weapon floats menacingly close to their traumatized, grief-stricken faces. Sweet Miss Maggie Green, whose father Hershel's head is pulverized on her left. Her little sister Miss Beth Green, pale as the lace of her wedding veil, frozen with shock, staring at their father's remains. Dazed, frail Missus Lori Grimes, wilting away from the grotesqueness of her surroundings, clinging to her boy Carl Grimes. A stoic, fiery-eyed youngster the leader had already taken a sinister shine to. Now the disintegrated head and crumpled body of the once proud and dandy young Shane Grimes._

 _The leader moves with dramatic slowness. The spurs in his boots sing sharply with each heavy step, pausing to admire the terror and carnage he's inflicted._

 _Finally, he reaches the notorious former Sheriff Grimes; bent, broken, and silent in the dirt._

" _Oh my. Mister Grimes…" croons the dark outlaw with the red sash around his neck, spurs catching the newborn sunlight. "You don't look like you're feelin' dandy at all." He sucks his teeth, the sound stabbing at the nerves behind Rick's eyes as he watches the blood dripping from the club's heavy end. "What's the matter, boy? Cat got your tongue?"_

 _Rick swallows, his head still throbbing with intense pressure, and tries to speak. Like dragging a horse through quicksand, the words that have been rattling around in his head since the club landed the first blow finally come. "I'm gonna kill you."_

 _His voice is choked, barely audible, but his resolve is like solid iron._

" _What…?" Negan Emory chuckles softly and kneels down slowly until his face is in Rick's line of sight._

 _With certainty as sharp as a knife's edge, Rick repeats himself: "I'm gonna kill you."_

 _Somewhere nearby, bundled in the back of their wagon, being watched by the cold eyes of a dangerous stranger, their baby girl Judith Grimes begins to whimper from the chill in the air and the emptiness in her stomach. Lori, dazed, doesn't notice. But Rick does. The sound slices through him like a saw as he finally focuses on the face of the man who just murdered his brother and best friend in cold blood._

 _There is a sickening smile gracing the menacing visage before him. "Well, shoot. I gotta hear that again, friend. Just one more time."_

 _Rick swallows bile and sits up straighter, the effort threatening to break him in two. But he has to make himself clear. There is nothing on this Earth Rick Grimes wants more in this moment than to see the man before him dead. Come Hell or high water. No matter how many red-sashed bodies he will have to step over to get there. Negan Emory is gonna die. If God damns Rick's soul for his vengeance, so be it._

 _In disbelief, Negan's amusement turns cold as his dark eyes latch onto the broken man's volcanic blues._

" _Not today. Not tomorrow." Rick whispers, staring Negan square in the eyes. "But I'm gonna kill you."_

" _That so?" Negan sucks his teeth again, cruel fascination befalling his expression._

 _Rick just stares at him, wrestling his body to stillness. There is deafening silence that reverberates through every crevice of the atmosphere._

 _Judith, in the distance, starts up her whimpering again. Negan ignores her, even as Rick flinches and looks off into the fog as though he can see her. "Johnny!" Negan barks quietly._

 _Rick's gaze snaps back to his, where Negan is branding holes into his soul with his eyes._

" _What did he have? A pistol?"_

" _He had himself a Colt. It's a beaut." The infamous gunslinger Johnny Ringo mutters in his slick, unaffected drawl from behind Rick, twirling the stolen Colt Python at his hip between his deadly-quick and nimble fingers. In his other hand, he holds a short ax loosely at his side. "And a hatchet."_

" _A hatchet?" Comes Negan's droll, impressed twang. He's surprisingly uninterested in the gun. The calculating leader turns from getting a look at the weapons in question to plant his focus on Rick again. A barbaric gleam in his eyes, he leans in, his voice low and steady. "Johnny's my right hand man, Rick. You ever have yourself one o'those? One of these fine people still breathing, mayhaps?"_

 _He scoffs suddenly and shakes his head sadly._

" _Oh, my, my, my," he tisks, "...it wasn't that smart-mouthed brother o'yours, was it?"_

 _Rick swallows down an overwhelming urge to rip the man's throat out with his teeth, silently absorbing the blow of hearing his dead brother referred to so callously. His dead brother, lying cold and destroyed on a dirt road a mere thirteen miles from Hell on Earth. A brother he'd spent the last twenty-four hours fighting with, resenting, and contemplating separating from. It wasn't like this before they rode into Tucson. Ever since they arrived in that town, blood, death and trouble followed them no matter what they did._

 _But if he is honest with himself...blood, death and trouble have been following Rick Grimes his whole goddamned life._

 _And now Beth and Maggie's father is dead. On the night after of poor Beth's wedding, where her new husband had been gunned down. Now Shane is gone...Shane...Rick's only brother...Negan's voice rips into Rick's painful thoughts._

" _Right hand man?"_

" _Yeah, boss?"_

" _Bring me the ax."_

 _What follows plays out like the quicksand in Rick's throat, slow and suffocating. He falls to the bottom of a well of shock as Negan takes his boy and forces him on his stomach in the dirt. Lori wails and faints dead away as Negan then drags Rick to kneel next to his son, plants the hatchet in his shaking hand and counts down. What proceeds is nothing short of Hellish torment as Negan orders the broken former sheriff to rid his only son of his right hand unless he wants every remaining member of his family to die on Quandary Road._

 _And then: "Just do it, Papa." Carl utters with so much strength that it sends his father into a tornado of anguish. Because he knows his son is right._

 _As the last of Rick's sanity snaps, he raises the ax._

 _And then Negan and his men laugh. They laugh so hard they howl. Tears sprout from their eyes. They stamp their feet and roar with wild, cruel laughter. Rick looks around at them, shocked to the point of insanity, horrified, confused, murderously angry._

 _He still holds the ax in the air above his son's slender arm._

" _Aw I'm not gonna make ya stump your boy, Rick!" Negan sings, laughing boisterously. "Not on such a fiiiine mornin' as this!"_

 _He kneels again, facing Rick with a cold, dead stare._

" _But I_ _ **will**_ _put a bullet through his eye if you ever set foot within a hundred miles o'this town again. Along with all those pitiful folks behind you." He gestures half-heartedly to Rick's family. "What's left of 'em, anyhow."_

 _Rick is riddled with shock. Carl remains silent underneath him._

" _I'll burn everything you ever loved to the ground. We understand each other, Rick?"_

 _Beside himself, Rick nods stiffly. His damp curls hang in his eyes as his trembling hand lowers the ax slowly, its blade sinking into the ground near his bent knee. Negan stares at Rick for so long that the silence and the time trample the entire, traumatized party's threadbare wits like a bull stampede. Then he smiles, satisfied._

" _Well…bye." He says, standing abruptly and whistling for his men to saddle up and move out._

 _Johnny Ringo is the last to mount his horse. He gives Rick one last cold smirk as he saunters forward on his wiry legs towards where the broken man is still kneeling next to his silent son. He stops short and twirls Rick's pistol between his deft hands. "Tell that Lunger it's a shame he wern't around to see all this. Guess he's just as coward as your brainless baby brother, huh?" He spits at the ground and holsters Rick's pistol. "I'll think o'this pretty pistol o'yours as a good faith payment o'sorts, all right? So we really understand each other...you set foot in this town again, I'll use your gun to end your life. And your wife's. And your boy's."_

 _Ringo tips his hat politely at the women, backing away to mount his horse next to a patiently waiting Negan. "Y'all have a nice mornin'..."_

 _In a haze of dust, galloping horses, cat calls and red sashes, the gang is gone. There is only a thick, heavy, cold silence left in their wake. Finally, the call of baby Judith rips life into the traumatized group again, as she begins to cry in earnest now._

 _Beth jumps to her feet, her wedding dress so dirty by now that it's almost unrecognizable, and runs toward their broken down wagon to see to the baby girl. Running away from her grief, her shock, and the sight of her father's destroyed body._

 _Rick sniffs loudly, tears breaking through to blur his vision as he finally drags himself to his feet._

 _He pulls his boy up into a hard hug, clinging to him as if to let him go would be to witness him disappear on the wind like the dust from the trampling hooves of the Savior's horses._

" _I'm all right, Papa." Carl mutters into his father's sweaty shirt. Rick nods, holding back sobs with all his strength, and lets his boy go. Then he finds his wife and steps toward her, opening his arms to embrace her with the same overwhelming relief._

 _But Lori doesn't greet her husband with relief._

 _She slaps his face before he can get near her._

 _Rick blinks and steps back, shocked, before he realizes what she's doing. She slaps him again, and then her fists begin to assault his chest as she shrieks with pain and anger. "YOU ALMOST TOOK MY BOY'S HAND - AFTER ALL THIS?! WHO ARE YOU TO DECIDE, YOU SELF-RIGHTEOUS BASTARD, BASTARD,_ _ **BASTARD**_ _! THOSE SAVIORS SHOULDA KILLED YOU! THEY SHOULDA KILLED_ _ **ME**_ _! WE BOTH SHOULDA DIED, NOT SHAAAANE! AND NOW YOU ALMOST MAIM MY_ _ **BOY**_ _?! GODDAMN YOU RICK GRIMES, YOU BASTARD, GODDAMN YOU…!"_

 _Rick endures her avalanche of residual anger, holding her thrashing wrists in his strong hands to thwart her physical assault as best he can. Finally she collapses to her knees, crying into the dirt at his feet. Rick can only stand there as Lori trembles and cries. He is too grief-stricken, furious, and maimed on the inside himself to do anything but stand there._

 _Finally, he realizes that Lori has lost all of her energy and is trembling so forcefully now less out of grief and more out of withdrawal. She hasn't had any laudanum since during the wedding and the stress of all this brutality has exhausted her. Once she's had it, she won't move or speak for a while. Rick finds himself filled with relief, rather than worry._

 _Carl kneels at his mother's side and holds her in his arms, allowing her to use him to stand with silent resignation. Maggie gets shakily to her feet, looking as pale and sick as Death. Rick accepts a tight hug from her frail body, too ashamed of himself to look her in the eyes._

 _Maggie seems to understand that words will not suffice in this moment. Silently, she turns to help Carl take Lori to the carriage, where the laudanum awaits in Herschel's...Hershel's bag. He had been forcing her to ration her doses, because they would be on a long journey and arranging for refills along the way would be difficult. She'd been quietly seething with need and anger for almost the entire ride before…_

 _Rick's gaze remains fixed on the ground now. Where his friend, Herschel...and his little brother, Shane, now lay dead._

 _Worse than dead. Destroyed._

 _With bitterly real, unyielding finality. And just like that, the anger boils inside him again as the sun rises above him, glaring down over his shoulder and through his soul. He's gonna kill 'em all. Every single stinkin' red-sashed one o'them. He doesn't know how at this moment, but he will find a way._

 _And suddenly he hears the sound of a longrider approaching. He looks up at the horizon and sees a silhouette so familiar that he almost chokes with relief._

 _It's Doc Holliday. And Michonne. They've come after all._

 _He had been hoping against hope that they'd stay clear of this place until Negan and his men left. He couldn't bear to see any harm come to Doc, or..._

 _Michonne._

 _She's riding behind Doc on her black stallion, her arms wrapped around his slender waist._

 _He looks somehow even paler and worse off than Maggie. The lung disease he's suffering from, that damned consumption, is gonna kill the man one day. Soon, Rick knows. He ain't a doctor, but he knows that sure enough from watching it kill his sister and Lori's father. He knows this is what Herschel had to say about it, from the moment he met Doc Holliday._

 _Doc's skin is deathly white with a yellow tinge to it, just under the surface. The rims of his sharp, dangerously intelligent eyes are red as the sashes Rick intends to rip from the cold, dead bodies of every Savior on Earth._

 _But Michonne looks as radiant and alluring as ever, staring at Rick with her large, empathetic brown eyes. Her dark skin is in sharp contrast to Doc's ethereal complexion, her long dark twists of hair pulled up to the top of her head. Her dress is ripped in places, marred by dust and some signs of the last gun fight they found themselves in together._

 _The night Rick realized that he was in love with her. That he would die for her, if the situation ever came to it. That even though she belonged to his friend Doc Holliday, she would always have Rick's heart. He might never get to tell her that truth. He might wait for her forever. But there was nothing he could do to change it._

 _Even now, with his family murdered and torn apart, with nothing to show for himself but failure and tragedy, he cannot - and will not - change his heart._

 _The horse stops just beyond where Herschel and Shane still lay, now a sight so ugly it turns Rick's stomach._

 _Rick takes off his jacket, tearing his beseeching gaze from the vision of Michonne, and lays it gently across Herschel's destroyed head. He can't yet bring himself to face what's left of his brother._

 _He doesn't have to. Doc gingerly picks himself up off the horse, perspiration dotting his deathly pallor, and drapes his own jacket over the corpse of Rick's brother._

 _Then the two men stand there, side-by-side, with Michonne steadying the horse behind them. Rick_ _ **feels**_ _her, however. He senses her every move. He always has._

" _Forgive me, Rick. I should've been here." Doc utters in his unhurried, gentleman's drawl. He smirks tiredly, the curled tips of his mustache lifting as he eyes the scene before him sadly. "It seems...this Lunger's determination to destroy himself has finally caught up with him. Irrevocably. Isn't that what our friend the good doctor has told us, mon amour?"_

 _Now Michonne joins them at Doc's side, her eyes only for Rick as she answers her lover's question. "He hasn't got long..." she mutters, the meaning blistering in her eyes. So Rick's hunch and Herschel's visual diagnosis was right. The man is at Death's door._

" _I'm sorry as hell to hear that, Doc." Rick swallows, his throat as dry as the desert at high noon._

 _Doc squeezes Michonne's hand and turns to look at Rick in all seriousness. They don't have much time. And Doc won't have it any other way._

" _Save your 'sorry's, Rick. If it's vengeance you seek...I have just enough life left in this...waste of a vessel to help you see it done." Rick stares into his friend's eyes. He knows Doc is telling the truth. He'll ride at Rick's side, helping him unleash a scarlet tide of blood and justice until his dying breath. Doc's eyes glint with keen, almost gleeful determination. "Just say when."_

 _The broken former sheriff looks now to the woman he loves. Michonne gazes back at him steadily, not flinching away from what's on his mind. Her sword hangs across her back, where she always keeps it, and he knows she'll use it_ _ **for**_ _**him**_ _. To avenge him. He is comforted by this. He can't know yet how much she feels for him, but he knows that she is on his side. He isn't alone._

" _When." Rick growls._

 _Doc nods. "Vengeance it is, then."_

 _Rick Grimes, Doc Holliday, and Michonne_ _Despereaux_ _stand in the early light of morning on Quandry Road, all in agreement._

 _Thus begins the story of the most devastating massacre of outlaws the Old West ever told._

* * *

*The Quandary Road Murders, June 5, 1881

That day on Quandary Road is widely reported to be the incendiary incident in the year-long, bloody vendetta ride known as The Scarlet Tide - in which Rick Grimes, Doc Holliday, and a gang of militia men hunted and slaughtered seventy men across three counties. On this fateful day, just before dawn, the outlaw gang known as the Saviors (recognized by the red sashes they wore) cajoled and trapped Rick's family as they were fleeing the homestead town of Tucson, murdering two. Among the casualties were Rick's younger brother Shane Grimes and the town's former doctor, Hershel Green. The deaths were brutal, and atypical for the time, when the most common way to settle disputes was a gunfight. Each victim was bludgeoned to death in front of some thirty witnesses, including Rick Grimes, his son, his wife, and Herschel's young daughters. Also said to be the site where one of the most infamous alliances (and love triangles) in Old West history began: That of Doc Holliday, Rick Grimes, and Michonne Despereaux.


	2. there's no peace for the law

**_A/N: I have made a bet with myself that I can finish and post the next chapter tonight. Fingers crossed!_**

 ** _Thank you for your reviews! I'm inspired again!_**

 ** _-Kendra_**

* * *

 _Written to the musical score of…_

' _The Rains of Castamere', Tina Guo (Game of Thrones)_

* * *

 **One:**

" **There's no peace for the law."**

April 14, 1880

It was nearing twilight on a Thursday evening when Rick Grimes and his family arrived in Pima County, nestled in the heart of Tucson - headed for Tombstone Territory.

They called it the newest frontier. The word that spread from here to the bayous down in Louisiana was that this was the next boomtown. The end of the Civil War had driven many a man out west this way to make his fortune.

Now it was Rick's turn.

It was half a day's journey along Quandary Road. It was the main road through town, but it also served as a passageway for migrating families, ranchers and businessmen clear across Arizona. They'd loaded up their wagon and carriage right after deboarding the steam train they'd taken from Dodge City.

Rick, his wife Lori, his boy Carl, their baby daughter Judith, and Rick's younger brother Shane made up the party of newcomers riding wearily into town as the sun set in the distance.

Shane's aging horse pulled the wagon behind the carriage, towing all the belongings they'd brought from their old home. The younger Grimes brother was tired and getting very close to cross, ready to close his eyes on this incredibly tedious day and finally forget about the long, grim winter they'd just survived in Kansas. He tried to keep his eyes on their surroundings to take in their new home. But they kept wandering over to his older brother's carriage, where his sister-in-law sat stiffly. He was worried about her. Always.

Lori was sitting quietly in the back of the horse-drawn carriage Rick drove. Carl was rocking a fussy Judith to sleep in the front next to his father. His Papa's old sheriff's hat was tipped low over his observant blue eyes as they took in every building and person they passed while they trotted through town.

The town was full of people. Businessmen. Bankers. Pinkertons. Young women, fresh as daisies in spring. Young bucks out to rut or gamble or drink their money away. Or all three, by the looks o'some. One street they gazed down as they passed held no less than six saloons. Some of the townspeople walking about or lounging on their balconies and porches watched them as they went. They seemed regular enough folk. Curious, as they ought to be. But harmless. _Good_ , Rick thought tiredly. Good for business, too. They wouldn't put up a fuss about him opening up shop here. He could take advantage of the passers-through, gamblers, bandwagoners, and tycoons from all sorts, everywhere - even the theater crowd.

Rick noticed, as he continued to survey the place, that there were a few cowboys stalking about with red cloth sashes - around their necks or hanging from their gun belts. He found that curious, his old instincts kicking in. But he ignored it. They seemed to be harmlessly raisin' cain, in typical cowboy fashion, ambling drunkenly from saloon to saloon.

 _Just think of 'em as walkin' bags o'take-in, Grimes_ , he told himself as they moved on. He'd ask Hershel about them later.

Rick had been dreaming of the possibilities awaiting them in Tombstone. A new start. A new life. He intended to make a profitable business out of this place, make enough of a fortune to settle down and retire, living out the rest of his days in peace.

Finally, an escape from burdens of being a sheriff - a role that had attached itself to his family name since the first Grimes became a man of the law three generations back. He knew his reputation would precede him. But he also knew he was capable of carving out a new one. This was the place to do it.

The last year had been one of the hardest years he and his family had ever faced. His relationships with his wife, son, and even his baby brother were strained from all the stress of the events that led up to their migration here.

It didn't help that during the winter, after giving birth to Judith and then the tragic suicide of her best friend Mamie Thompson, Lori had started suffering from headaches. Soon after that she'd taken to laudenum. She was becoming more addicted with each passing month. Now she sat silently in the back of the carriage, her delicate skin pale despite the Arizona sun, her eyes glazed over and unfocused, smiling inexplicably to herself every now and then. She was high, as she'd been almost every day for three weeks straight now.

Both Carl and Rick had simply gotten used to it. Their days of pleading and arguing with her to stop or see a doctor were long over. Only Shane remained stubbornly passionate about getting her to quit the devilish substance. For him, she tried sometimes. But grief was the hardest drug for her to conquer, and the laudanum kept her blessedly numb. It was her comfort. Her shield. Her escape. Rick, with the stress he'd been under, had simply lost the will to tear her from it.

It angered and saddened him, but he still hoped that this new life would somehow awaken her. Bring her back to them. He hoped.

"How far is it to Hershel's farm, Papa?" Carl spoke for the first time since they arrived on the train, turning to squint at his father in the setting sunlight from underneath his ubiquitous hat.

They were nearing the edge of town, now. Coming up on a large theater house with a saloon attached - the one Rick intended to buy.

Rick cleared his throat, smiling wearily at his son. "Not more than a mile outside town, son. Almost there. You tired?"

Carl yawned and shrugged, rubbing Judith's back. "I'm all right. Starvin'. I reckon Uncle Shane is, too." He glanced back at his mother quickly before his eyes landed on his father's again meaningfully. "And I think Mama's gonna need to settle in soon. She hasn't said much since we left the train."

Rick didn't look back at his wife. He sometimes found it too hard to see her like that. Even though she was in this state more and more often of late. He nodded, sighing hard and tugging on the reins to slow the mare towing his carriage down a bit. Determined to give Carl something inspiring to see before they moved on, he gestured across the road to the large, impressive structure they'd soon own. "You see that, son?"

Carl nodded, adjusting Judith against his chest. Her little head was trying to turn in the direction Rick was pointing, responding to his voice, as if she could understand what he was saying. "Yessir?"

"That's gonna be ours. Me and Hershel are gonna walk into town tomorrow and buy it off the woman who runs it now. Free and clear. No debt owed."

Carl's eyes rose from the saloon doors to the towering theater attached to it. This place was built with extra special care. Not like the other plain, almost identical buildings built at the speed of the town's growth in population: A barber shop, a church, a general store, the jailhouse, the mayor's office, and a handful of other establishments including a bank and a cobbler.

Where the rest of the town seemed to be built on a lick and a prayer, this theater was built by someone that appreciated his work. Maybe even lived for it. Just like Carl's Papa used to live for being a peacekeeper. This place suited him.

It had what his Mama would call character. She loved interesting construction, especially if the materials were foreign, from the Orient or France or somewhere. Or at least...she used to.

Carl raised his eyebrows, finally looking impressed with something since they left all his friends back home in Kansas. Rick felt pride warm his heart, and determination ignite his spirits. "Wow. What'll I get to do? Can I count the money? Deal the cards?"

"Now, hold on there, Carl." Rick chuckled. "You're a bit too young to be hangin' around a buncha lowlife gamblers."

Carl looked bitterly disappointed, but Rick appreciated his enthusiasm. "I'm fifteen soon. I'm old enough to shoot...why can't I deal cards?" he grumbled, stubbornly watching Judith gurgle as she tried to eat her own fist.

"I don't want you shooting any more guns, Carl Grimes." Lori Grimes said quietly from behind them. She fanned herself, her eyes watery and her pupils dilated. "I hate guns."

Both Rick and Carl turned to watch her, and she stared at them as though they were two imbeciles that couldn't understand English.

" _I hate them!_ " she hissed, now glaring at Rick. There were ghosts in her eyes. Ghosts she blamed him for.

"I know that, sweetheart." Rick sighed dejectedly, his pride and excitement momentarily stolen from him by her tragic sadness. He could see Carl felt the same.

"We plan on dyin' of starvation on this road, Rick?" Shane barked from behind them, interrupting the tense moment. His horse was looking more and more baked by the second on account of the journey they'd been on. Hell, he was feeling a bit woozy, himself. "Let's get a move on. Supper's waitin'!"

Rick couldn't argue with that. Shane, though his mouth was dumber and faster than his brain sometimes, always found perfect timing. Sometimes Rick wondered if it was due to Shane's watchful eye that he and Lori had made their marriage last this long. He tore his gaze from his wife to look at his brother. "Keep your teeth in, we're goin'." He called, smiling, remembering again that this was a new start. "She's a beaut, ain't she?"

Shane turned to gaze up at the saloon with the theater attached. The one his ambitious big brother was going to buy with their life savings. Still, despite his annoyance and hunger, he could appreciate Rick's vision. "Yeah, yeah...pretty as a new bride, now let's git!"

Rick saw Shane's awed, even hopeful grin and was satisfied. His baby brother had been somewhat reluctant to pick up roots and move out of Dodge City. He'd been popular there - with everyone, but especially women. He had a bit of a reputation, himself, that had more to do with his labido than his skills as a peacekeeper. This last year had been hard on them all, however. Rick knew deep down, Shane was hoping the same things he was.

Rick kicked his tongue and got the horse moving again. As they made their way out of town the eldest Grimes looked back just one last time at his 'new bride'.

She was a beauty, all right. And she was gonna be his soon.

* * *

A slight chill had settled over the desert as the Grimes family finally closed in on the equally impressive farmstead that belonged to Doctor Hershel Greene.

The house was three stories, built and painted white by Hershel's own hand. There was a separate cottage that he'd built into a small family home he now intended to rent to the Grimes'. He had three dogs, a modest crop of ranch land for livestock and two young daughters he'd endowed the home and land to. He'd been settled in Tombstone for three and a half years now, and when he offered Rick a place on the property - plus a cut of a potential fortune for them all - Rick couldn't say no. Not after the year they'd had.

Hershel, his eldest Maggie, and his youngest Beth were sitting around his porch, surrounded by his dogs, waiting. Their father sat in his rocking chair, smoking his tobacco pipe while Beth read aloud from the bible and Maggie tallied up the family expenses for the month in Hershel's bank ledger.

"Well I'll be damned...Rick Grimes. In the flesh!" Hershel got to his feet, beaming. His dogs followed him, barking excitedly and circling around him as he made his way toward the carriage. He looked much older but much happier than the last time they'd seen each other three and a half years ago, at the funeral of his late wife Josephine, who died of consumption. It had only been letters and telegraphs since then.

"Hershel!" Rick called with relief. "Damn, it's good to see ya, you old goat!" Everyone spilled out of the carriage, exhausted but glad to be there. Rick and Hershel embraced as the sun threw brilliant orange and purple hues across the land before it finally went to sleep. "Feels like we've been makin' our way here for months."

"Well, you're all home, now." Maggie said kindly. "Welcome!"

Hugs and greetings were made all around. Beth and Maggie were growing into beautiful young women, and to Rick's relief, both of them took to Judith like she was their own kin. That meant his boy Carl could be relieved of baby sitting duties, which his father knew he'd been itchin' for. "She's just beautiful, Lori!" Beth gushed, taking the baby girl from Maggie's arms to get a better look at her cherubic little face.

"Thank you, Beth." Lori said quietly as Rick helped her down from the carriage. She offered a weak smile to the two young women, nodding in greeting to Hershel. "Forgive me if I'm...a little out of sorts this evenin'. Rick's right, it's been a long journey." Then Lori, in front of everyone and without much concern for being gracious, turned to whisper to Rick: "You were supposed to stop at the general store, remember? Why didn't you stop?"

Rick felt his jaw stiffen as he turned to meet his wife's eyes. She looked on edge now, and he knew why. He could see she was starting to need more laudenum. But they'd run out right before they made their final stop on the train. He hadn't forgotten - he had simply been hoping she'd be so happy to be settling in with Maggie and Beth that she'd maybe be amenable to waiting until tomorrow. He said as much now. "Darlin', I was hopin' we could get settled in first. You're feelin' better, you said."

His wife looked cross for a moment, but Maggie stepped in, reaching out to pet Lori's hand. "What do you need, Lori? You look fit for a faintin' couch!"

Lori offered a polite smile, tearing her eyes from her husband's as Rick stood awkwardly trying not to make a fuss. They'd only just gotten there.

"It-it's nothin', Maggie, dear. I just get headaches since Judith was born. Rick knows that. I usually take laudanum, but we-we've run out." She looked nervous, her mind obviously occupied solely with finding more laudanum.

"Daddy, don't you keep some o'those spirits in your bag?" Beth chimed in as Shane sauntered over from watering his horse. Hershel smiled and nodded at his daughter - but neither Rick nor Shane missed the glint of concern in his eyes. Beth cooed at baby Judith before beaming at Lori. "We'll get you fixed right up Mrs. Grimes. I'll go and fetch you some. Won't y'all come on inside for somethin' cool to drink?"

"Oh aren't you a dear, sweet thing!" Lori gushed gratefully.

"Just be careful there, Lori." Hershel said seriously, though his voice as gentle as always. "That stuff's full o'the hop. Too much and you won't be rid of it."

Rick knew that all too well. So did Shane and Carl. Neither said a thing.

"Oh no, it's nothin' as serious as all that, Hershel!" Lori said dismissively, already dislodging herself from Rick's arm to pat her son on the shoulder and follow Beth into the house. "It's just headaches, that's all. Carl, please take that dirty old hat off for supper."

"Yes, ma'am." Carl said without a fuss, sliding his full head of thick hair out of his father's old hat.

"A little supper in your belly and you'll be right as rain," Hershel called after Lori, though she didn't pause to answer.

"Supper, _now_ we're talkin'!" Shane interrupted, exercising his perfect timing again to break the tension. He gave Hershel a firm handshake and tipped his hat to Maggie. "Miss Maggie. You are lookin' fresh and sweet as spring rain, if you don't mind me sayin'." He winked at her and she rolled her eyes at him.

"Still a tick on a dog's ass, I see, Shane Walter Grimes."

Hershel, Rick, and Carl tried to stifle surprised (and impressed) laughter at her choice of words. Maggie was a beautiful young woman, but she was tough as a pistol. Totally opposite of her baby sister Beth.

"You know it, sweetheart." Shane didn't mind her rotten manners. Truth was, he thought of Beth and Maggie like little sisters. He loved them both, he'd do anything for them. And Hershel, too. "Lead the way, old man."

"Good to see you too, fool boy." Hershel said good-naturedly. He had always teased Shane for his recklessness when he was a teenager. The handsome twenty-nine-year-old was all grown up now, but he still possessed that air of unpredictability he'd always carried around as a kid.

Rick nodded gratefully to his younger brother for lightening the mood again. He and Carl began to unload their things, with help from Shane and Hershel.

Once the wagon was unloaded by the men, they went into the large house, where a delicious-smelling meal was ready to serve. The smell of the food made the Grimes men forget about everything but their hunger.

Despite Lori's fragile state, Rick was overwhelmed with a sense of belonging here. He felt his excitement kicking up again. He just kept telling himself - _this is going to be it_. This was going to be the start of the best years of their lives, their whole family. He believed it. He would see it done.

"You must be fit to eat a cow by now, eh son?" Hershel said to Carl as he showed him to a wash room, marveling at how big he'd gotten since last he'd seen him. "This boy's gonna be bigger'n Shane one o'these days, Rick."

"Lord I hope not," Rick rolled his eyes and rubbed his chin, contemplating what on earth he was gonna do now that Carl fancied himself a man.

Everyone unpacked enough to wash off and change for supper. Lori's mood instantly changed once Beth had fetched her the laudanum. She was still feeling a bit peaked, but she was at least high again - she smiled to herself with mild amusement and tried to keep up with things as she watched Beth and Maggie bathe and change baby Judith. Hershel insisted on giving the child goat milk, on account of the spirits in Lori's system. Rick was embarrassed, and concerned for his daughter, but Hershel reassured him.

"She'll be fine, Rick…" the elderly doctor said to him quietly as he prepared the milk. "I intend to put her on a ration. She'll want for it no more, soon enough."

"Thank you, Hershel." Rick said gratefully. "I gotta admit, that's exactly what I was hopin' for."

The two families set the table and broke bread. Everyone was in light spirits. Maggie and Beth were excellent babysitters, leaving Carl free to wag his tongue with his Papa and Uncle Shane. He even sat listening in fascination as Hershel described delivering a calf just the other week. Lori fanned herself and frowned in distress at having to hear such an obscene thing, but she didn't interrupt.

Rick paid it no mind. He was relaxed and his belly was full. The men drank beer while the women sipped on sherry. They reminisced about their time in the war, their time in Dodge City, and their hope for the future.

For the women's sake, they all ignored the heavy cloud hanging over any talk of the recent past. The last year the Grimes family spent back home. When so much...brutality, confusion, and anguish took place. It was a rough time, even the children could not avoid the ramifications of what happened in their hometown just thirteen short months ago.

Rick didn't want to bring it up, and he was thankful Hershel and his girls seemed to respect that. So they talked about the future. The saloon they intended to buy from a woman who opened a traveling vaudeville act when she breezed into Tombstone on the wind nine months back. Ms. Andrea Muldoon of the Louisiana Muldoons. Her family helped found six counties down there. And her father had his hands in land deals all over the south, but his biggest and most successful claim to fame was his reputation in New Orleans. He owned or had a stake in, rumor had it, at least a dozen bath houses, saloons and theaters in New Orleans alone. Even one in Creole country. Rick shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly feeling warm around the collar, remembering the first and only time he'd been to New Orleans.

Specifically the owner of the darkest, smoothest, softest, most tantalizing skin he'd ever touched. He snapped himself out of a surprisingly fast and easy descent into reliving other memories from that night in New Orleans.

Hershel was busy calling Andrea Muldoon a 'golden-haired spitfire'. "She came into town with a pistol, a ton of money and no fella. She walked right up to the commissioner's office and asked for the lot. Mayor Monroe granted permission to hand over the deeds!" He slapped his hand on the table to convey his shock and awe appropriately.

"Hell." Shane scoffed, shaking his head and taking another bite of roast. Women out this way sure seemed wild. They acted like men. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Part of him was excited for the challenge. "Sounds like she's just some rich prospector's daughter in need of a good tamin', not our life savings, you ask me."

"Yeah, well no one's askin' you." Rick grinned knowingly at his brother, already cottoning on to the ideas forming in his head. Shane was a ladies' man, through and through. "I'll do all the talkin' tomorrow, if it's all the same."

"She must be some woman…" Lori uttered, fanning herself, watching Shane, curiosity finally giving life to her usual look of preoccupied politeness.

"So why sell, now?" Rick asked Hershel distractedly, frowning. That one question had been in the back of his mind the entire way here. He was hopeful, and determined, but he couldn't walk in blind.

Hershel nodded as if he'd been expecting that question from his shrewd friend. He took a sip of water and rested his arms against the table, leveling with Rick. "The saloon is dryin' out. Business is weak. Maybe some folks don't take too kindly to a woman runnin' her own place. This ain't New Orleans, after all. She needs us as much as we need her."

"She's too stubborn to run to daddy for help, I'm guessin'." Rick thought about this. "What makes us so sure we can reverse the draught?"

Hershel gave him a purely earnest, proud grin. "You're Rick Grimes, the famous peacekeeper, don't you know that? Once word gets out that you own a place in town, we're in business."

Carl smiled and chuckled at Hershel's excitement. He was excited, too. He was proud of his family name. But his Papa didn't look too keen on the idea.

Carl was right. Rick wasn't very comfortable with this idea at all. "No, Hershel. Not like that. We'll find another way."

Carl lost his smile and turned his face down to his plate. He didn't understand his Papa sometimes. Shane gave the kid a sympathetic rustle of the hair, but otherwise said nothing. Rick's rule could be kinda strict, but he did everything he did for the good of his family.

Hershel was disappointed, but he knew better than to argue. And he could respect the man's wishes. Rick Grimes was a good man, and a man of his word. If he said they'd find another way, they'd find another way.

They moved on to talk about acquaintances in town. Hershel rattled off a list with help from Beth and Maggie of who they'd met and got friendly with since they arrived, along with who they knew from back home or elsewhere that had made their way here.

"Mayor and his wife are decent folk. Their son's a deputy here in town. Good kid. A little weak in the spine, but he's doin' right by his paw."

" _Daddy_ , bein' kind ain't the same as bein' weak! Besides...Spencer Monroe's just about the handsomest man in town." Beth said wistfully, her big blue eyes all full of stars. "That's gotta count for somethin'."

"Rumor in town's that Doc Holliday's makin' his way up Quandary Road." Maggie informed them, eager to talk about something more interesting besides who was handsome or not.

"I'll be damned, _Doc Holliday?_ " Shane said, whistling and grinning. "We ain't seen that crazy sumbitch since we crossed paths in Tennessee, how're those lungs o'his?"

"About the same, I reckon." Maggie shrugged, revealing her hands to a surprised and entertained Judith.

"Yeah, it's been a while. I wonder how he's doin', myself." Rick recalled Doc Holliday fondly. He was the smartest, craziest, deadliest gambler and gunslinger Rick had ever met in his life. He was also, somewhat secretly, the most loyal. They'd missed each other in New Orleans by a few weeks but ran into each other again months later in Tennessee. Rick had a reputation for going above and beyond to bring a criminal to justice. Doc could be counted upon, on occasion, to be of assistance. Right after he cleaned out whatever town they happened to be meeting up in. Usually with some fiery young filly on his arm as he did so. Gamblin' was his trade. Gunslingin' was his sport. He was the best at both, everywhere he went.

"I hope he makes it to Tombstone." Carl muttered. "I wanna finally meet 'im this time. Can I, Papa?"

"You keep away from those awful gunslingers, you hear me, Carl Grimes?" Lori said sharply, not waiting for Rick to answer. And that was that.

* * *

After supper, everyone said goodnight and the Grimes family made their way to their new cottage.

Rick's mind was buzzing. He undressed in no particular hurry, though he was dog tired. He was thinking about things, mostly going over his plans for tomorrow, and the rest of their lives. A lot was riding on this deal. He wasn't terribly worried about securing his stake in the saloon. He was certain he could come to a friendly and fair agreement with the woman, Ms. Muldoon. Spitfire or not, she sounded smart. If she knew what was good for her, she'd know she was getting a good partner in Rick.

And once they started making a profit, he could build them a house, and maybe one day open another place - or take over one of the places on that high street full of bed houses. He could send Shane out to open more places, and soon they'd be in the running to become just as successful as the Muldoons. The prospect of it all made his chest swell with anticipation.

Lori was sitting up in bed when he came in, rubbing jasmine oil into the skin of her hands and wrists. Her eyes were glassy again, she was smiling vacantly to herself, and the bottle of laudanum was sitting on the night stand next to her. "That the bottle Beth gave you?" he asked, frowning distractedly as he undid his cufflinks.

She scoffed. "What else would it be? Don't be so dramatic, husband of mine."

"Just take it easy, all right, Lori? Hershel's right."

"Hershel's not my doctor. The man shoves his hands inside cows, Rick." She snapped. " _My_ doctor's back home in Kansas. He said this is perfectly fine when I get those headaches. You know how much they hurt, Rick."

Rick still had his back to her, slowly undoing his shirt, but he nodded with resignation. He didn't like the way she talked about Hershel, but there was no convincing her right now. Maybe when things started to turn around, and she could stand the regimen Hershel said he'd put her on, she would get better.

"Things are gonna get better, darlin'..." Rick said sweetly, leaving his undressing and crawling into bed next to her with his shirt halfway undone. He wrapped an warm around her thin thighs and gave her a loving squeeze, gazing up into her eyes. She had eyes as big and romantic as a doe in the wilderness, he always thought. He fell in love with her when they were just teenagers because of her curiosity, her sweetness, and her nurturing nature. But that sweetness had soured, and her romantic curiosity was all but gone, replaced more often these days with detachment or bitter sadness. "You believe me, don't you, Lori? I'm gonna make a fortune for us in Tombstone. And then I'm gonna build you and Carl and Judith a house. And we can paint it that pretty pale yellow color you always wanted, remember sweetheart?"

"I wanted that house in Kansas, Rick…" Lori said, tears breaking through the glassy surface of her haunted eyes. "Not out here in this horrible desert."

Rick lost his hopeful smile, swallowing to suppress his anger. "You haven't even spent a night here yet. Just give it a chance, Lori, that's all I'm askin'."

"What choice do I have?" Lori pulled her legs from underneath him, slinking away from him out of the bed. She grabbed her pillow, and flinched with repulsion when she noticed him waiting for her to grab the bottle of laudanum. "I'm goin' to sleep with Carl. This bed gives me an ache in my back. Goodnight."

She always said that lately, no matter what bed they slept on. He didn't watch her leave the room. He just stared at the bottle of laudanum until he heard the door click shut.

* * *

Shane had just finished splashing well water over his neck and pausing to admire the sheer, sweeping beauty of the desert at nightfall. He had to admit, he was glad that they'd done this, now that they were finally here. He trusted his big brother, to Hell and back. May as well trust Rick again now.

He was walking back into the cottage when he saw Lori slipping down the stairs, no doubt to find Carl's room in the dark.

She was in her nightgown, not properly covered. She didn't really even pay attention to him as she walked through the gloom. He would've left her alone but that he could see in the moonlight - she was crying.

Damn Lori, always getting him involved, powerless against her tragic sadness.

He found himself approaching her, even though it was highly inappropriate to be seeing her in such a state. But she was his sister-in-law, and he was worried. They might've had a fight. Sometimes he had to talk her out of doing rash things just to get back at Rick for some hurt or harm he'd caused without knowing it.

"Lori…? Jesus, girl, what are you doin' wanderin' around the house in the dark?"

She rolled her eyes at him and hugged her pillow to herself, deflating the feathers inside against her chest. "What do you care, Shane? Oh, don't tell me. D'you think I need 'taming' like your little golden-haired spitfire Ms. Muldoon?"

Shane clenched his jaw, standing up straight as he let his eyes flicker around them to make sure no one was lurking around to hear this. "Watch yourself, Lori. We just got here and you're jealous, already?" He took a second to gather his nerve before he came right out and said it. "You're on that laudanum again, aren't you?"

She shook her head, avoiding his gaze. "I don't know what you're talkin' about."

Shane stepped into her, grabbing her wrist. Lori gasped, but instead of fighting him she reached up with her free hand to cling to his chest. "Lori, you _gotta_ quit that stuff! And quit _me!_ We can't go back to the past, you hear me?" He huffed his breath in her face, but she didn't seem like she was listening to him at all. Her breasts heaved against him, and she was trembling. Not with fear, he knew. With something else. Something she ought not to be feelling toward him, staring up at him in the dark like a lost little lamb. Something he knew he couldn't allow. No matter how much he wanted to. His body betrayed his words, but he was determined to get through to her nonetheless." _Ever_. He's...he's my brother. It ain't right."

"But you still love me, don't you Shane?"

Shane swallowed hard. She was so manipulative. There was a time, back when he was rebelling against everyone and everything, including his father and big brother's iron fists, when her cunning ways drove him wild. He made mistakes with Lori that ate him alive with guilt every single day, especially when he had to make eye contact with his brother. He made a vow when they left Dodge City that he would never make any more. He loved Rick too much to lose him for good. He cared for Lori...but...he couldn't care for her like this. And he knew it. Not if he intended to even be able to look _himself_ in the mirror again.

"I _do_ love you, Lori." Shane breathed, loosening his hold on her and slowly letting her go. He stepped back, despite her attempt to pull him back to her. "But I love my brother more. I'm sorry. Goodnight."

Lori stood in silence, watching as he retreated into the dark and up the stairs to his bedroom. Then slowly, silently, she turned and continued on her way to her son's room.

Carl sat up in bed when he saw his mother enter, but he didn't say anything. Neither did she. They never did.

Sometimes she just got sad, and needed to come and curl up with him until she fell asleep. Sometimes it was because she fought with his Papa. Sometimes it was because of something Uncle Shane said, though she never told him what those things were. Or what those arguments were about. Or what she was thinkin' about that made her so sad. She just curled up next to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. And she kissed him on the hair and fell asleep. Every time.

Eventually, Carl always fell asleep too, holding his mother in one arm, and putting his thumb in his mouth with the other.

* * *

Rick lay on his back, still partially dressed, unable to sleep. He'd heard Shane climb up the stairs and retreat to his room hours ago. He knew Lori wasn't going to come back to bed tonight.

He couldn't stop thinking of Morgan. The last words he ever heard his friend say to him, sitting in that rusty, freezing jail in the dead of winter.

" _I don't regret what I done. And I ain't sorry. They killed my boy, Rick. So I killed them. If the Lord sees fit for me to die today...so be it."_

They hanged Morgan Jones that day. Rick would never forget that day, for the rest of his life, no matter how he might try. That had been the day he resigned, gone home, and told his family that he intended to leave Dodge City as soon as the winter was up.

Now, on the outskirts of Tombstone in the middle of the night, Rick got up out of bed and fetched his flask from his traveling satchel. He also retrieved a cigar he'd been saving for the night they bought the saloon. But to hell with ceremony. He needed a drink and a smoke somethin' awful.

He stalked silently through the cottage, taking a deep swig from his whiskey flask, and wandered out to the front porch.

The moon was sitting high above him, watching over the vast, inky darkness of the desert. He lit his cigar and puffed on it thoughtfully for a while in the dead silence. It calmed him. Made it possible to think with a clear head, finally.

After a while he heard the rustling and panting of Hershel's dogs approaching, and soon saw them along with the old man himself.

They came around the side of the house, bathed in moonlight, and approached the porch. Rick shook hands with Hershel and offered him the flask across the railing. The old man took it in grateful silence, climbing slowly up the stairs to join his friend. He took a swig and handed it back as the two men watched the dogs haggle over a bone in the dusty yard.

"It's beautiful out here, Hershel…" Rick said quietly, feeling his soul at peace for the first time in a long time. Well - as near to peace as he could ever feel. "I'm glad I came."

"Me too, son." Hershel said. It was a tendency of his to forget they were friends and think of Rick as more like family. "You're doing the right thing by your family, Rick. I had to make the same hard choice for my girls. It near 'bout tore me in two, leaving my home and everythin' I knew." Rick listened respectfully as Hershel sighed hard. Somehow the old man always knew exactly what Rick needed to hear. He had missed their quiet talks, he realized suddenly. He listened. "But _this_ is home now. And I _know_ now, Josephine would've been proud. She would've loved it here. I'm just happy my girls are gonna grow up on their own terms out here. It's how it was meant to be."

Rick chuckled, nodding and staring at the smoke curling up from the tip of his cigar. "I want the same for Carl and Judith. And Lori, whether she knows it or not."

"She'll come around."

Rick wanted to change the subject. He suddenly remembered the cowboys in red sashes he'd seen in town today. "Who are those boys in red, Hersh?" He asked, pulling more sweet and spicy, thick smoke from his tobacco log. "I saw 'em raisin' cane in the center o'town today. They gonna be a problem?"

Hershel looked hesitant to answer, but he couldn't withstand Rick's steel gaze for long. "They call themselves the Saviors," he admitted quietly. "You're gonna hear the mayor and his boy the tell you there's law and order in Tombstone, but...really it's the Saviors who are in charge."

"How's that?" Rick stood up straight from his leaning position against the railing, his hackles raising as well. His old instincts kicking in. He eyed his old friend patiently, awaiting his answer.

"Listen, Rick. I want to tell you now...well I thought about it and you're right about goin' off your name for business-sake. If we're gonna do this...we gotta play by their rules. That's just the way things are out here."

"And they don't take too kindly to lawmen, I'm guessin'." Rick said in that tone he used when he knew he was right.

Hershel nodded. "There's no peace for the law out here in Tombstone. Not with the Saviors around." He rubbed his beard and reached out for the flask again. "When they're around, they _are_ the law."

Rick considered what he was saying, and he nodded that he understood. "I don't plan on doing anythin' but making money, Hershel." He said after a moment of contemplation. "I left my badge behind in Dodge City. I plan on stickin' to that decision."

"Understood, partner." Hershel grinned.

When they parted ways, Rick was still unable to get to sleep quickly, despite his exhaustion and drunkenness. But eventually, he found his mind wandering to that tantalizing skin again. And a pair of deep, dark brown eyes that haunted him all the way to Tombstone.

The lips of a stranger. A woman he met some ten years ago now, when he was feelin' lonely and destructive. Self-righteous anger and bitter anguish had led to scorching desire. And she found him. In the back of a dark, unknown tavern in Creole country, New Orleans. She found him and she...made him feel more alive and sinful than he'd ever felt in his life.

Rick eventually fell asleep dreaming about making desperate, forceful, intense love to the Creole woman in the back of the dark tavern.


	3. I calculate that's the end o'this town

_**A/N: Throughout this story, some scenes and dialogue will be taken directly from the movie Tombstone, and do not belong to me. However, they've been altered slightly and incorporated into an original story written by me, featuring characters from both the television show The Walking Dead and the movie Tombstone.**_

* * *

 _I'm a dead man walking here_

 _but that's the least of all my fears_

 _did that full moon force my hand?_

 _or that unmarked hundred grand?_

 _ain't goin' back to Barton Hollow_

 _devil gonna follow me e'er I go_

 _won't do me no good washin' in the river_

 _can't no preacher man save my soul_

 _\- 'Barton Hollow', The Civil Wars_

* * *

 **Two:**

" **I calculate that's the end o'this town."**

April 14, 1880

It was an unusually cool night in the desert town of Barton Hollow, about sixty miles outside Tombstone Territory, right along Quandary Road. There was a bright crescent moon in the sky.

Doc Holliday and Michonne Despereaux were having their last night of sinning and gambling at the last saloon on the edge of town.

Michonne was watching, as usual, her keen brown eyes never leaving her man from her perch at the end of the bar. She had her hair piled up atop her gorgeous head, some of her locs falling down to graze that smooth dark skin of hers along her neck and shoulders. She was wearing his favorite dress tonight. The tight burgundy one with the neckline that hugged her petite, scrumptious-looking bosoms, complete with a pair of black, French lace arm covers.

Doc was winning, as usual, looking up to wink at her salaciously every now and then from over his handful of cards.

They called him the Dead Man Walking. Pale as a ghost, his ire was as quick and merciless as Death. So it was on this night in Barton Hollow, Ed Bailey was the last sucker left in town willing to risk his fortune to the likes of Doc Holliday.

Good ole Ed, the pour soul, was right cross about it, too. And then some.

Doc sat with his legs crossed, examining his hand as though reading an interesting book, suppressing deep coughs in the pit of his chest, frequently taking drags of his cigarette and blowing the smoke right over the table. His face was as pale as ever, dotted with tiny beads of perspiration, and cast in shadow under the brim of his hat. His mustache was slick and neatly curled at the edges. He put his cards down and rolled a silver coin between his deft, slender fingers absentmindedly, waiting.

"All right, that's five hundred dollars, Holliday." The dealer huffed irritably, gesturing to the pile of loot in the center of the table. "You in or out?"

Holliday gave a few tight coughs in response, his eyes rising to meet his opponent's across the table. "Five hundred…" he uttered in his genteel southern drawl. "Must be a peach of a hand."

Ed simply glared at him, as dumb as an oak stump in the middle of a dead forest. His thick mustache and bowler hat punctuated his sour expression. Doc fancied he might see steam come cascading from his ears at any moment. He was having fun taunting the dumb stump. It was almost as much fun as taking all of his money would be shortly.

Understanding her Doc's tendency to become cruel due to his love for taunting his opponents, Michonne slid herself from her perch on the stool at the bar and picked up the bottle of whiskey she'd purchased earlier. All eyes followed her statuesque form as she sauntered gracefully over to his table, her sword hanging from one shoulder, bumping against the side of her skirts.

Doc watched her come as well, ignoring Ed and the dealer. He loved to watch her move, his sexy little Creole angel. She slid herself into his lap, pouring him a helping of fine Irish whiskey. She loved being near her Doc. He was tall, slender, and always coughing these days, but his body was solid and strong. He smelled of fancy French cologne and his ever-present cigarettes. She enjoyed the tingle of his soft, roaming touch as he circled his free arm around her and pulled her tightly against him. And she reveled in the feel of his crisp, clean black tailored suit against her exposed shoulders; his cool breath dancing across her skin.

Doc felt the same, always relishing her toned yet curvy body against his. She was so full of passion and was such a fierce killer, lover, and friend. He couldn't ask for a better woman at his side. He'd loved her since the moment he saw her in a decadent little hiding place of a tavern on the outskirts of the French Quarter, just as bewitching and beautiful as any ingenue in a fairytale. He begged and pleaded by letter and in person for some long years as he came and went making a name for himself, until finally she agreed to come with him on the road to serve as his muse and partner in crime. Well, truth be told, he sort of made off with her like a thief in the night. But she welcomed the kidnapping, his little minx. He had always lived at the edge of a knife's blade, hardly allowing himself to slow down enough to survey the carnage. But nowadays he always found a moment to pause, wherever he was, whatever he was doing, to admire _her_ when she was near. And he always wanted her near.

They were addicted to each other, and took equal pleasure being near each other, inhaling each other's scent, feeding off of each other's energy. Most white folks that witnessed the way Doc treated this Negro woman (who always carried that damned sword) were just plum baffled, and sometimes agitated. But he paid them no mind, ever. And they gave him no trouble. Or if they did, everyone knew Doc was just as likely to burn a man down as he was to quote some Latin poet. And if you got shot by Doc Holliday, it was likely you'd be dead before you even realized what happened.

He was that fast. He was the deadliest man alive, all the legends said.

That made Michonne Despereaux the most protected woman in the west. Not that she needed protection from any man. There were legends about her, too. About how many men she'd beheaded with that sword of hers. They liked to raise cain like anyone else in the west. But if you crossed them, it was your funeral.

Doc watched her pour his drink, mesmerized, as usual.

"Why thank you, darlin'." Then his sharp gray eyes widened in mock scandal. " _Michonne…_ " Doc crooned in her ear as he bumped his legs, bouncing her practically bare bottom in his lap, causing her to shiver against him. "You're not wearin' a bustle. How lude..." That excited him.

He turned to smile at the other men at the table. Ed sat there staring at Michonne for a moment, but he shook himself from his preoccupation with her and growled: "Come on, Holiday, you in or out, goddamn it?"

Michonne kissed Doc's lips and got off his lap, returning the whiskey bottle to the barkeep. The man didn't much like her - as was usually the case with most white men wherever she and Doc went - but he kept his mouth shut and took her money. She stood leaning against the bar now, watching _her_ man.

Doc took a deep breath and drank a good helping of the whiskey his love had poured him. "Why Ed Bailey, you look like you're just about ready to burst." He coughed, smirking.

"Come on, show!" Ed gritted impatiently. Michonne took a drag of her thin, hand-rolled cigarette, watching. Getting excited. Doc was like a big wild cat, toying with his prey. When he made the killing strike, it was a thing to behold. It got her wet and feeling absolutely sinful every time.

"Well...I suppose I'm deranged, but...I guess I'll just have to call. Cover your ears, darlin'." He instructed Michonne flirtatiously as he put out his smoke and showed his hand, laying the cards flat across the table. A winning hand, every time. Doc was unstoppable. He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, the corners of his mouth quirked up in smug satisfaction, his eyes gleaming dangerously across at Ed Bailey's enraged face. "Isn't that a daisy?"

"Why you son-of-a-bitch!" Ed huffed out an angry breath and jumped up from his seat.

"Come on, Bailey, just settle down!" The dealer rasped irritably - and truthfully kind of anxiously. He didn't think Ed was smart enough to realize just who he was picking a fight with.

"Shut up!" Ed barked, squaring his shoulders. He glared down at the ever cool, calm, and collected sharp shooter sitting in the chair across from him. "Take your money and get out." He jerked his bowler-capped head to the door behind him. "Cause I'm sick o'listenin' to your mouth!"

Tension settled in the air over the entire room as all eyes turned to the table in the back corner.

Doc leaned back further in his seat, revealing the clean, pearly white handle of one of his pistols. His fingers danced across it, as if toying with an interesting question. To be or not to be?

"Why Ed Bailey…" Holliday uttered, raising the hairs on the arms and necks of every patron in the room, including Michonne's. "We cross?"

Ed faltered, his heart visibly pounding through his vest, his eyes flickering from Doc's face to that pistol and back again. "Them guns don't scare me." He muttered, somewhat uncertainly to Doc's ears.

He could smell the fear pouring out of the sweat running down the side of the big fella's brow.

"Without them guns you ain't nothin' but a skinny Lunger."

Doc cast his head back in mock scandal. "Ed, what an ugly thing to say. I abhor ugliness. Does this mean we're not friends anymore?"

In response, Ed spit resentfully to the floor near Doc's chair.

"You know Ed," Doc continued conversationally, ignoring the big fella's abhorrent rudeness. "If I thought you weren't my friend...I just don't think I could bear it."

Without another word, Ed reached for his gun. But Doc Holliday was much faster. He drew both his pistols in the blink of an eye, and had them trained on Ed's heart before the big dumb stump even got his weapon unholstered.

They stared at each other. And Doc clicked his hammers back. He smirked. Michonne watched him get the drop on a man yet again, for what seemed like the thousandth time. _Mmm_ , she loved watching her man go to work.

Ed stepped back and sighed, resigned to his fate. But Doc simply rolled the pistols forward in his hands and deposited them on the table, right on top of the loot. He patted them good-naturedly and sat back again, pleased with himself. "There. Now we can be friends again."

He waited patiently for Ed's response. The entire tavern had given up any pretense of paying attention to anything other than Ed and Doc.

The dealer watched Ed think for a few seconds, and knew the poor fool was about to make the wrong decision. Doc sat making the same conclusion, his weak heart pounding, the thrill of the hunt and kill shining in his deadly gray eyes.

Ed lunged for Doc, and Doc got the drop on him once again, pulling a knife with lightening fast speed and sticking it right into Ed's side. He jammed the knife in deep and twisted, shoving Ed around the table to fall on another one nearby, sending the other bar patrons scattering.

The barkeep went for a gun strapped under the counter, but Michonne had her sword unsheathed and at his throat in seconds. "Touch that gun and I'll send your head flyin' across this room."

He angrily raised his hands in surrender, glaring across the room at Doc Holliday and Ed Bailey, defiling his establishment with some dusky harlotte.

Doc watched the life leave Ed's eyes and then slowly pulled his knife out of his flesh. He wiped the blood on the dead man's waistcoat with disgust before sticking it back into the leather sheath hidden in his boot.

Michonne got Doc's bag from under the table and began shoving all the money he'd won (plus everything else) into it. The lanky sharp shooter in black strolled back over to the table, drinking another helping of whiskey and holstering his guns again under his jacket as he eyed his enchanting warrior in a corset. "I calculate that's the end o'this town, _mon amour_ …" He drawled at her as she closed the bag.

"I had a boy at the hotel pack us up," Michonne responded, standing upright and gazing across at him. "The horses are outside."

Doc smiled lustily at her. "Mm...so _that's_ why you're not wearin' a bustle." His cock twitched in his trousers, and he could not wait to get her away from this place. Where he could ravish her with all the urgency they were now devoting to leaving this town laden with other people's money. Perhaps under the desert moon this time. He was feeling positively _primal_.

Michonne laughed, her eyes sparkling. She led him away from the table as he lit up another cigarette. He followed her gladly, watching her shapely ass move and sway, not perturbed in the slightest by their audience. "My sweet, soft Creole angel..." he murmured with lust in his eyes and in his loins.

Doc Holliday drank the last drops of whiskey in his cup and paused at the door of the saloon, turning to bid Barton Hollow farewell.

"Well." And he noticed the cash piled up at the end of the table to his left. He scooped up each pile and deposited the loot into the leather bag brandished with his initials, held in Michonne's waiting arms. "Good evenin', then."

He tipped his hat politely and they made haste. Michonne felt excitement ignite in her belly as they ran for their horses. Doc was just as excited - the liquor, the money, the kill, and watching her glide around with that sword, made him feel feverish and impulsive. He strode up to her and grabbed her arm from behind, turning her around to press her body against his.

She gasped at the feel of his hard length pressing into her thigh through her skirts. Not wearing a bustle made it all the easier to drive him insane with need. "Let's not bother about the luggage," he growled huskily, vowing to buy her whatever she wanted if only she'd allow him to make love to her all night under the stars. "And to Hell with beds and walls. I intend to have you in the wild tonight, my sweet."

Michonne watched Doc lean in hungrily, and she ran her hands up across his chest until her fingers latched into his short dark hair at the nape of his neck. They kissed, him sliding his cool tongue into her mouth and sucking on her delectable lips, bending her over with the force of his passion.

Knowing exactly the taste and texture of the precious nectar that awaited him betwixt her dangerous thighs, Doc had a desire to defile her right then and there if she would allow him. He was sorely tempted to try it. If only they didn't have to make a run for it.

Finally, after a few breathless turns, he let her go and helped her mount her handsome black stallion. He took the bag from her hands, kissed her lace-covered fingers, and sauntered over to mount his own horse. "Let's ride like the wind, darlin'. We'll take a short respite in Tombstone, I think. At least there a man can get a decent haircut." He drawled.

"Lead the way, _mon fou à lier_." Michonne breathed in her smooth, sexy voice. He winked at her, and they were off, racing through town, out into the desert - headed for Tombstone Territory.

But first, they stopped and he pulled her from her stallion - carrying her away to make love under the stars, as he'd promised.

* * *

 _Written to the musical score of…_

' _Angel', Massive Attack_

* * *

 **Creole Country,**

 **Edge of the French Quarter, New Orleans**

July 28, 1870

 _Rick Grimes has been chasing the outlaw Nicholas Clementine all over Louisiana._

 _His father had ordered him not to go hunting in the wild. It's out of their jurisdiction, and there is nothin' much they can do about it. He's gonna get himself in trouble, twisting and turning the law into knots just to bring a man to justice, his father told him._

 _But what Rick's father doesn't know is that he has that all worked out. He always notifies the law wherever he travels, on the hunch that outlaws will do what outlaws do best. Make a nuisance of themselves. Kill, steal, cause a ruckus. When that happens, with their cooperation, he'll be right there to deliver the perpetrator to the nearest authorities._

 _He maybe can't get 'em on what they escaped Dodge City for, but he often finds they repeat the same patterns wherever they tread. Sometimes he brings them home to face justice. Sometimes he lets them hang or rot in jail wherever they make their last stand._

 _His baby brother Shane is itchin' to come with him, but this is hard, lonely work. A man's work. Shane is still just a kid, working the streets of their hometown. He's bored, Rick knows, but he usually finds something in the arms of his latest conquest to distract him from his impatience._

 _It's nearing midnight when Rick saunters tiredly into the tavern on the edge of a long, dark road that leads out into Creole country. His horse is drinking from a watering trough, hitched up to the post nearby, and Rick is pretty thirsty, himself. He pauses, taking off his hat to run a hand through his damp hair so his curls will stay out of his face. Really, he's just being cautious._

 _He heard music on the ride up the road, as he was circling back toward the French Quarter from his fruitless hunt through the old plantation lands a few miles away._

 _Now he's so tired and ready to drop that he'll stop anywhere, so long as there's whiskey. Or rum. Or beer. He'll take anything, at this point._

 _Clementine's trail had disappeared out here, miles away from the city. Either someone is giving the man shelter and lyin' to Rick about it, or he's gone underground and isn't gonna reappear any time soon. He must've known Rick was on his trail._

 _Frustrated and feeling his loneliness for the first time in a while, Rick stands just at the threshold of the tavern. He isn't sure if he wants to go in. He feels drawn inside, but for some reason he's nervous to follow his gut this time._

 _The war had corroded much of the majesty of these lands, which had already been sinister with the memories of horrendous deeds, such was the price of slavery. But the freed slaves that took up residence here in New Orleans had their own ways._

 _Creole people mingled and mixed with white folk, but they were always wary of people like Rick Grimes, who was just another gunslingin' American to them. He could drink their French cocktails and sleep with their women, but he would never belong and they wouldn't want him anyhow._

 _When they weren't drunk on sex, art, and music in the city, they gathered on the bayous to make business out of entertaining bankers and gamblers, aristocrats and the like. They held their own traditions and spoke their own language and apologized for none of it._

 _The place is Eden to Rick. It both enthralls and frightens him. He's on a slippery slope. If he goes inside, he'll be giving up his hunt for the night, possibly for good. And if he gives up, he'll give in...to whatever is pulling him inside._

 _He hesitates, his hand resting on his holstered gun, the one his father gave him._

 _The tavern is just as humid as the outside, and nearly full to the brim. Women slink and sway about, some of them scantily clad barmaids carrying pitchers of this tonic or that. Some of them high-society wives or ladies of fortune with glittering jewels shining under the light of the oil lamps. Or wrapped in luxurious furs despite the humidity. Men fill the holes in the space, tending to the women with keen eyes, impure thoughts, and practiced game._

 _Enticing music fills the air, coming from a small band crowded onto a platform that serves as a stage near where Rick is leaning into the room at the door._

" _Do come in,_ _monsieur." A servant girl beckons him inside. He hesitates for a moment still, the brim of his hat casting a shadow across his eyes. Finally, he tips his hat politely and steps in after her. She eyes him up and down, assessing his profession, and therefore how much he will spend tonight. He is handsome, she thinks. Young, strong, and undoubtedly from the west. She takes note of his badge and giant, gleaming Colt Python tucked away in its holster before releasing him from her gaze. Her Creole accent curls around her words as she leads him further inside. "There is plenty to take your mind from whatever vexes you so, gunslinger. Come in an' sit. 'ave some wine."_

 _She leads him to the farthest corner of the room, and he allows her, his steel gaze sweeping across the place. The faces he finds are all aglow in the lamplight, laughing obscenely or whispering secretly to a partner. Some of them watch him as he saunters through their midst, his spurs clinking quietly under the music, clearly an outsider. An earnest peacekeeper from Kansas; well he sure as hell ain't there now._

 _The barmaid seats him in the shadows at the back of the tavern, by himself, somehow reading his mind. He doesn't want to be recognized and he doesn't want to get dragged into anyone's business._

" _Well, 'andsome stranger...what shall you 'ave?" She asks, standing over him as he takes off his hat and settles into the hard wooden chair. She places a hand on her hip and smirks down at him, her bosoms practically spilling from the top of her corset, her creamy, light brown skin damp with perspiration from the heat in the room._

" _Why don't you surprise me,_ _ma chère_ _?" He asks in a horrible accent, marred by his very deep drawl. She scoffs, amused at his attempt. In fact, he hears a chorus of amused scoffs behind her and his hard blue eyes rise to see that all of the barmaids have crowded in a huddle to watch him._

 _There is one in particular, taller than the others, and much darker, too, that catches his notice - and does not release it. He forgets all about the woman serving him, now staring at the bewitching beauty with the long, dark twists hanging down her back and across her shoulders. She stares right back, igniting a fire in his gut that has nothing to do with the Louisiana humidity or the heat of the oil lamps surrounding them._

 _Her lips are mesmerizing, thick and curved into a curious smile now as she stares at him. Her skin is so...even from here, sitting almost ten feet from her in the shadows, he can see how deep and rich her skin is. His fingers tingle with a strong desire to touch her. Run the pads of his fingertips along her valley of deep umber flesh, starting with her shoulders and following whatever natural course they would take across every inch of her. But it's the look in her eyes that hooks into him somethin' deep. It's like she can see right into him, right into the heart and soul of him. It's like they're the two loneliest people on Earth, and somehow, by some fate unknown, they are meant to meet here. This night. Right now._

 _All this, in a single glance._

 _Madeleine, the_ _young woman serving him, sees his interest and raises a knowing eyebrow. That fucking cunt Michonne has bewitched another customer._ _Madeleine_ _both loves and hates the girl, but she's learned never to deny a man the pleasure of Michonne's company once it's clear he's chosen it. She might like to keep the brooding American for herself, but he is clearly smitten and not interested in anything or anyone else. Being passed over so easily used to make_ _Madeleine_ _boil with jealousy, but now it is something of a sport to watch Michonne beguile pitiful fools out of their riches._

 _Tonight would be no different. For this haunted-looking lawman will see, like all the others, that there is no resisting Michonne Despereaux._

" _I 'ave just the thing for you, monsieur…"_ _Madeleine_ _whispers, backing away and returning to the bar._

 _Rick simply nods absently, completely taken with the woman with the empathetic eyes. He watches as the girl who sat him here whispers in the dark skinned beauty's ear. She doesn't take her eyes from him as she nods her agreement to whatever her fellow barmaid has asked of her. She disappears from view for a moment, and Rick frowns, trying to follow her with his eyes. But he loses her in the crowd._

 _The crowd is pulsing with life, each patron seeming to get drunker by the minute. Finally, the mysterious woman with the alluring eyes appears again, this time approaching Rick's table. She's carrying a dark, unmarked bottle and two brandy glasses in her hands. Her skirts are drawn up around her calves to ward off the heat and keep her cool in this crowded place. And also to entice the men to tip her well._

 _Her breasts are much smaller than the other woman's, but shapely and perched inside her corset in a manner that makes Rick's Adam's apple bob in his throat. He is already becoming aroused, just watching her move toward him._

 _When she reaches him, she sets the glasses down on the table and begins to pour. He can smell that it's some kind of brandy, but doesn't recognize it. And besides...he can't take his eyes from her face as she pours. She is smiling coyly to herself, her thick lips curved upward as she watches the liquor fill each glass._

" _Thank you…" he says quietly, still watching her in the dim light, ignoring the goings on around them._

" _Have you ever tasted Creole brandy before, monsieur?" She asks him, and her voice is just as smooth and deep as her skin. Hearing it for the first time sends a small shiver down his spine. She pushes his glass toward him and slides into the seat next to him, leaning over the table to pick up her own drink. She raises it to him._

" _No, can't say I have." Rick answers, still unable to take his eyes off of her. He doesn't tell her that he's never been to New Orleans before tonight, either._

" _Drink." She demands quietly, and he raises the glass to his mouth to do as she's asked. The brandy is damned good. As intense and complex as she seems to be. Rick feels lulled by the taste, and her haunting eyes on him. "You like it?"_

 _He likes_ _ **her**_ _. He nods, swallowing the sharp, bittersweet liquid, feeling it burn a pleasant path down into his soul, easing his exhausted, frustrated nerves. "It's good. Thank you."_

 _She stares at him for a moment, and then takes a drink from her own glass. Rick watches the liquid dampen her lips and follows its phantom path down her delicate throat with his gaze. "What brings someone like you to the Quarter?" She asks him, blinking at him expectantly. "You look as though you like to chase ghosts, lawman."_

 _Rick chuckles awkwardly, shifting his weight in his seat, feeling caught all of a sudden. There's no one here that knows who he is, or at least he doesn't think so. He could lie, but he doesn't want to. There's something about her that won't let him hide from her, even draped in shadow as they are now at the back of this tavern._

 _Anger and grief threaten to engulf him before he can catch hold of himself. He swallows down another helping of brandy, and she leans her chin against her palm, her breasts rising and falling slowly in the dim light._

" _I'm chasin' a man that killed a friend o'mine." Rick answered truthfully, watching the light dance across her flawless skin. "But I don't think I'm gonna find him here."_

" _You didn't come here to find him." She says, now reaching over to dance her fingertips along his wedding ring, which he had completely forgotten he was wearing. Rick has half a mind to hide his hand from her, or get up and escape from her intense gaze, never to return. But her voice makes him forget himself again."What else are you chasing?"_

 _Her fingertips are now caressing his knuckles, having moved on from the ring. He doesn't quite know how to answer her question. He wants more of her touch. He wants to touch her in return. His pistol sits heavy and deadly in its holster and his cock sits thick and hard in his trousers under the table. His badge glints in the lamp light, along with his prismatic blue eyes._

" _I don't know what I'm chasin', besides outlaws…" he admits. "I just know I haven't found it yet."_

 _From the first time he ever took a man's life, in the war, Rick has felt an emptiness inside that he cannot fill - or ever escape. Marrying his sweetheart and having a son has not done it. Hunting criminals to the edges of the new world has not done it either._

 _The emptiness only seems to grow bigger and hungrier. The dark beauty sitting next to him, touching him, seems to recognize this emptiness inside him. He doesn't understand how, but she can see it. And he can see the same, empty sadness reflected back at him in her deep, dark eyes._

 _Rick finds himself entwining his fingers with hers, his heart pounding. The music and laughter in the background persists, but it may as well be muted echoes in the ether. The second he allows himself to touch her in return, he is lost._

 _At first their fingers simply dance around each other, the sheriff and the barmaid staring at each other in silence, until they begin to caress each other's skin in earnest. His cock stiffens and elongates, and he takes another sip of brandy to mask the change in his body language. But she doesn't let go._

" _Tell me more." She leans closer, and he can't refuse her. He frowns, not understanding why he's so willing to tell the cold, bleak truth to a stranger. But,_ _ **what a stranger**_ _. "What's your name?"_

" _Rick Grimes." He replies, running his thumb across her fingertips tenderly. "What's yours?"_

 _She shakes her head, smiling sweetly, her eyes glinting. "What are you chasing, Rick?"_

 _Rick sighs hard, feeling a chasm open up inside him, even as he also feels more attracted to this woman than he's ever been to anyone in his life. Again, he tells her the truth, leaning forward now, his voice low and earnest. "A reason to live."_

 _She blinks, and he swears she's blinking back tears. But they're gone just as soon as he spots them and he strokes her skin more insistently. Her skin is so soft….softer than he imagined when he first saw her. All he'd been granted was her fingers but he wants much more. She nods slowly, as if answering the question he hasn't yet dared to ask. "Would you like one tonight?"_

 _Rick doesn't hesitate. "Yes." He breathes, not believing his luck. "Please."_

 _She pulls her fingers from his, to his immediate disappointment, but he soon realizes that it's because she is rising from her seat. Rick leans back, his cock stretching and straining for relief as he watches her graceful body unfold from her sitting position and come to stand above him._

 _She is...a vision. Together they drink the last of their brandy, their eyes latched onto each other's, the hot tide of desire coursing through their veins. Rick finally stands up and picks up his hat, leaning to the side, allowing her to glimpse the evidence of his need for her._

 _He bares it all in his crystal blue glare. He is a married man. A man of the law. And he let a murdering criminal slip from under his nose. But he doesn't care._

 _Tonight, all he wants is her._

 _She takes his hand and leads him away, to a very small, intimate section of the tavern behind a heavy, crimson curtain. The room is draped in rich, lush fabrics, and is much darker than the rest of the place. The air feels cooler back here as well, and provides a modest shield against the din of the debauchery surrounding them._

 _Rick takes of his jacket and hat, depositing them both on a silk-covered pillow. Then he pulls her against him from behind, grinding his hips, overcome with lust. She curves her bottom into him, rubbing herself along his erection, causing him to grunt at the fierce pressure - and pleasure. The handsome peacekeeper finds his hands roaming of their own will, touching every inch of her skin that he can, burying his face into her damp, soft neck to kiss her there._

" _Please tell me your name…" he pleads in a husky drawl, turning her around so he can look into those gorgeous, empathetic eyes of her again._

 _But just as soon as she comes face to face with him, so close, he has to taste her lips. Rick captures the thick, moist, luscious treasures with his own lips and kisses them like a man dying of thirst in the desert. He grows harder and more desperate the more he tastes of the sweet brandy coating her lips, mingled with some enticing natural scent of hers he knows he'll never shake._

 _He feels her fingers toying with the thick curls at the nape of his neck and they send chills down his spine again. He squeezes her bottom through the thin fabric of her scant little barmaid's dress and she gasps against his lips, allowing him entry into her mouth with his tongue._

 _She begins to pull at him, backing up to the pillow-covered seating behind them. She doesn't give him her name. Instead she pushes him downward, and he finds her straddling him in the cool dark before he can breathe. He follows her lead, running his hands across her silken thighs, kissing and licking at her bosom._

 _She removes his gun and sets it aside, sinking her heat further downward into his lap, seeking his long, hard length. He obliges, bucking his hips against hers, thrusting for purchase._

" _Are you lonely, Rick?" She whispers, kissing him, rubbing herself against him. He nods breathlessly, reaching up with a free hand to begin the work of unlacing her corset. She responds to his haste, and assists him by loosening his tie, followed by the buttons of his shirt and vest. Her dark locs cascade across her shapely shoulders, brushing against his face as she pants at him. "I'm lonely, too…mmm, I love the way you touch me. Please, touch me, Rick. Deep inside. I need you."_

 _Her voice is so vulnerable in this moment, he becomes even more erect and ready for her, if it is possible. "I just wanna forget," he groans, tearing at her clothes. "I_ _ **need**_ _to be inside you. You're so beautiful…"_

" _I'll help you forget. If you help me forget, too. Please, Rick, fuck me."_

 _And they speak no more. Rick finally gets her corset undone, tearing it from her and leaning in hungrily to taste one of her small breasts. He feasts on her, and she moans so sexily. She undoes his belt and then his pants, opening her legs wider and lifting herself to take his thick shaft inside of her sweet womanhood._

 _Rick crushes his eyes shut and drives himself inside her, kissing and tasting her, completely consumed by her. She clings to him, allowing him to plunder her forcefully, completely committed to him._

 _He swears he's in love with her. He doesn't know how it can be, but he feels it as she rides him in the back of a tavern on a humid, moonlit night in New Orleans._

 _He doesn't even know her name. But he'll never forget her._


	4. stand there and bleed

**Boop. I rewatched Tombstone this week, and then some of my favorite Richonne episodes of TWD, and just could not stop myself. Rick believes he'll never see the mysterious woman from the tavern again. He is very, very wrong. It's a small world in the old west, after all.**

 **Please enjoy!**

 **-K**

* * *

 _my haunted lungs_

 _ghost in the sheets_

 _I know if I'm haunting you_

 _you must be haunting me_

 _my wicked tongue_

 _where will it be?_

 _I know if I'm onto you_

 _you must be onto me_

 _\- 'Haunted', Beyonce_

* * *

 **Three:**

" **Stand there and bleed."**

April 15, 1880

He still remembered what she tasted like.

That dark skinned beauty who refused to tell him her name. Rick was half-asleep, but he could tell by the chill and the light drifting across his closed eyes that it was near dawn. He didn't want to leave his dream...his memory...just yet.

He remembered what she tasted like. He could not get enough of her. He had caressed her skin with his tongue all over - first her breasts. For a long while. She simply laced her fingers in his hair as he slowed his thrusts inside her tight, wet sex so that he could enjoy her. Every minute they had with each other was precious; he could feel it. The din of the tavern threatened to break through the heavy red curtain at any moment, the shadows from moving bodies under the lamplight threatened to invade the cool darkness. Rick hadn't taken a single moment for granted, more drunk on her than on that Creole brandy. It hadn't been nearly enough.

And once he was spent, she took him in her mouth and coaxed every drop of his seed from his gushing head. Rick could only lay back and groan, forgetting everything and everyone but her.

Now, in his new bed in the middle of the desert, he remembered that night vividly. He let his eyes flutter open to squint around in the gloom. The ghost of her body against his, her skin against his tongue, her taste in his mouth, was still there. He remembered returning her devotion, parting her thighs, lifting her skirts, and feasting on her tender, sweet pussy. Her silken skin rubbing against his face and arms, crushed between his fingers.

He could still taste her now, years later, and he yearned for her again.

She was gone when he woke the next morning back then, and he'd felt the heavy weight of her absence like a boulder in his chest. Just as he felt it now, waking up alone in a new home.

Rick sighed and rolled over from his side to lay fully on his back. He was hard as sin again, as he'd probably been all night while he dreamt of her. Lord, he wished he at least knew her name.

 _What good's it gonna do you,_ _ **now**_ _, Grimes?_ He chastised himself, now fully awake. He had to snap out of it. The past was the past. It was precisely to _escape_ his past that he'd come here to Tombstone. Sure, he was lonely, and sure part of him would probably always wish he could see that beautiful, mesmerizing face one last time. Kiss those luscious lips. Hear that smooth voice.

But that was never gonna happen. He had to deal with life in the present, right now.

Rick sat up and looked around the room as the sun rose through the lace curtains draped over the windows across from him.

It had occurred to him more than once...maybe it was his distance, his insistence on going above and beyond to avenge the wronged, that initially drove Lori from him. The laudanum had its hooks in her now, but maybe what drove her to it in the first place was _his_ fault, he sometimes thought. His fault that she was so sad, why she took losing her friend and bearing a second child so hard. Why even now, when he was trying to change the way they lived, she couldn't trust that he wouldn't just pick up and go off chasing justice again. Leaving her alone to deal with life without her husband at her side.

Rick vowed to make things right. Today was a new day. _The_ day.

Time to take a cold wash, rid himself of his dream-fueled erection, and go to work.

* * *

A few short hours later, once they'd filled their bellies with breakfast and coffee and sat down with Hershel to plan their attack, the men of the house bid the women farewell for the day and headed into town.

Beth and Maggie fussed over baby Judith on the porch while Lori sat vacantly watching the tumbleweeds skip across the desert, fanning herself to stave off the already oppressive morning heat.

Rick gave his wife a sidelong look as he hitched up his carriage and got his mare going. She hadn't spoken a word to him since she disappeared to sleep in Carl's room last night. She intended to punish him for this move until something brought her out of her vexation, then. Resigned to the mercy of the ever growing distance between them (for now), Rick ruffled his son's hair and followed Hershel and Shane into Tombstone. His fortune, their future, awaited. Lori would come around, like the old man said, he had to hope.

The town was bustling with folks crisscrossing the main road attending their business bright and early, he was pleased to see. It was a stark contrast from their sleepy settlement in Dodge City. There was energy in the air that could only be produced by a boomtown on the rise to its prime.

Carl sat next to him, watching the scene of homesteaders making their way in the world, finally looking forward to all of this in the light of a new day, Rick could tell. He turned to smile up at his father as they found an unoccupied post to hitch the horse and wagon to. "Sure seems like there's more people around this afternoon Papa."

"Yeah, sure does, son. That's a mighty good sign for us." Rick agreed, looking out at the busy, inspiring scene. He noticed his son eyeing a cluster of young misses heading into a parfumerie down the road a piece, and chuckled to himself. All he could see was the profit, and the roots he was about to lay down here. He would let his boy remain a boy for now. "Why don't you take that list your mama wrote down for you and get the supplies we need, alright? You can go explorin' after, but not too far. Meet back here in a bit."

"Yessir." Carl hopped out of the carriage, holding his hat to his head so it wouldn't fly off, and went stalking toward the general store, ducking out of the way of busy townsfolk as he went. He paused, turned and hollard: "Good luck, Papa!"

"Thank you, Carl." The boy grinned and scampered off through the dustup from the road.

Rick watched his son go, and found himself flanked by Hershel and Shane. They were standing in front of the O.K. Corral, with the Muldoon Theater attached. The three men stood in their finest, their black frock coats sharp as a whistle, their wide brimmed hats casting shadows over their eyes. Rick checked his pocket watch. Miss Muldoon was due to meet them out front in ten minutes. He turned to his brother. "Alright, let me do the talkin' and we're home free, eh?"

Shane grunted and leaned over to spit tobacco chew into the dirt. "You're the boss, peacekeeper. I'll just stand here an' look pretty."

Hershel chuckled, clasping both younger men by the shoulders. "This is our future, boys. Let's show this filly what we're made of."

"Oh, and this filly is just _dying_ to see what you boys have up your sleeves…" They heard a cool, sexy lilt of a voice behind them, and turned to see Miss Muldoon herself sauntering out of the theater's double doors, her maroon petticoat and skirts rustling in the slight breeze. She was early; she'd probably been watching their arrival. Rick could already tell how clever and strong-willed she was, just by the sight of her and the confident air she possessed in her stance alone. Her golden hair was braided into a wild, curly rope that hung low across her shoulder, her sea green eyes glinted as she shielded them from the bright sun. Shane stood speechless as a parched mule. Rick immediately took a step forward, removing his hat and offering his hand in greeting.

"Ma'am…" Andrea stepped down from the porch of the saloon and took his firm grip, giving him as good as he gave. "It's a pleasure. I'm Rick Grimes. This here is my brother Shane and Doctor Hershel Greene."

Andrea nodded to both men, taking a moment to linger on Shane, sizing him up with keen interest.

Shane cleared his throat. "Afternoon, ma'am. You're just as pretty as a desert rose, you don't mind me sayin'."

Rick had to restrain himself from smackin' Shane upside his thick head as Andrea raised an eyebrow at his brother's forwardness. Typical Shane, talkin' all that hogwash last night about untamed women, and now finding himself smitten. "I don't mind at all. A compliment from a handsome stranger before business keeps me young. So, are _you_ the man I ought to be talkin' to?"

"That'd be me, ma'am." Rick started, but Andrea waved a dismissive hand his way.

"No need to be so formal, if we're gettin' in bed together, Mr. Grimes. Andrea or Miss Muldoon will be just fine." She smiled and gave him a flirtatious wink. Hershel was pleased as punch and unabashedly amused as he watched Rick take the lead with whom they were all positive would be a hell of a handful. "You just tell me what you can offer me that all the other prospectors 'round here couldn't."

Rick looked up at the saloon behind her, scratching at his beard. She wasn't interested in polite platitudes, then. Good. "Well...what seems to be your trouble? How 'bout we start there?"

Andrea's interested expression intensified and she let loose a full grin, crossing her arms over her pretty, frilly corset. "I like a man that puts a woman's needs before his own, Grimes." Rick fought not to blush as she turned back to her establishment. She sighed and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "When we first opened, we had high class rollers every night. The take-in was a thing of beauty. But soon after, we got ourselves a squatter I just can't shake."

The men exchanged looks, already cottoning onto the exact thing in their skillset she had use for.

"A squatter, huh?" Rick came to stand next to her, gazing up at the doors to the saloon, where they could hear the faint sounds of a Victrola playing, along with raised voices from inside.

"A real nasty piece o'work Faro dealer. Name o'Tyler. He came in, copped a squat at my best table, causin' a racket, slappin' all my customers around, chasin' out the good money."

"No offense, Miss Muldoon," Rick drawled, squinting skeptically as he turned back to her, worrying his hat in his hands, "but you seem more than capable of gettin' rid o'some foul tempered pissant crowdin' out your business."

She scoffed. "You think? If I laid a hand on him, or shot 'im dead, the menfolk in this town would string me up by my garters."

All three men balked somewhat at her way of speaking, but said nothing.

"Believe me, I tried. The law 'round here doesn't take kindly to burnin' a man down while he's makin' an honest livin'...at least, that's what Mayor Monroe likes to tell me every time I complain."

"Uh-huh...I see…" Rick exchanged meaningful looks with Hershel. He wanted to meet this mayor. But first, it was time to have a few choice words with this Tyler thug. "Alright. I won't burn him down, you have my word. Excuse me for a minute."

He handed Shane his hat, nodded politely at Andrea, and sauntered up the porch, into the saloon.

Behind him, he heard her mutter: "Where's he going?"

Shane answered, somewhat smugly: "You'll see. Just give 'im about five."

"I say three," Hershel added, to her befuddled silence. "Today's your lucky day, Miss Muldoon."

* * *

Rick walked into the O.K. Corral, pausing over the threshold to take the place in.

It was real nice. Shined mahogany bar top, brand new brass railings, plush, deep green seating, Faro tables almost pristinely neat, the cards crisp with the ink on 'em richly dyed. The glasses behind the bar caught the sunlight like crystal chandeliers. Sweet, musky cigar smoke filled the air. The Victrola played a scratchy record from Creole country, courtesy of Miss 'Louisiana' Muldoon.

A mighty fine establishment, he could tell from first sight. They'd do well here.

Only problem was, it was damn near empty on a bright, bustlin' Friday afternoon. Highly unusual for such a fancy setting in such a booming town.

And that problem was caused by the very loud, very oafish asshole parked at the center Faro table, barking orders and slapping the players around like he owned the joint. Rick stood, steely-eyed and stone still, watching for a moment.

" _Goddamnit_ , Smith, you blow that cigar smoke in mah face one more time, I'll blow yer brains all o'er that bar top, you musty son of a bitch!" The oaf barked, shoving his spotter nearly off his stool.

That was Tyler, then. He looked like a dumb sack of shit, alright.

His target locked, the former peacekeeper let his eyes roam a bit more, unhurried.

Rick spotted the barkeep and sauntered smoothly over to him, nodding politely. "Afternoon."

"Afternoon, stranger. What can I get ya?"

Rick eyed the offerings at the bar and gestured to the cigar case before him. "One o'those cigars oughta do me. Thanks." He pulled out some coins and handed them over, taking his cigar and running it under his nose for a whiff before the barkeep lit it. He smoked for a moment, listening to the oaf bark more obscenities at his players. "What's your name, fella?"

"Tobin, at your service, sir. You?"

Rick offered his hand. "Rick Grimes. Nice to meet ya."

Tobin shook his hand, but gave him a skeptical look. He had heard of Rick Grimes, the famous peacekeeper who always got his man, no matter where they tried to run to. Rumor had it Rick Grimes could burn a man down with his hands tied behind his back if he willed it. This fella didn't look like no famous lawman. He looked like a slick Pinkerton if ever Tobin saw one.

"Yeah right, mister…and I'm General Washington."

Rick smiled slightly at the barkeep's sly joke, puffing on his cigar. That was cute. And sort of a relief. Maybe it would be easier than he thought to leave his reputation behind afterall. Well...until he took care of that tub of lard at the center table, at least. Only time would tell. About two minutes, Rick reckoned from the looks of him.

He let the quip slide and set a boot on the bottom rung of the bar stool next to him, leaning in for a chat. "It's a nice place you got here, Tobin. Real nice."

"Mighty obliged, sir. We do what we can." Tobin nodded, shining a beer glass with his towel, looking wary of the disturbance in his establishment all the same.

"Kinda dead in here for a Friday, though, innit?" He puffed, his blue eyes glinting. "Why's that, you think?"

As if on cue, Tyler got to bellowing again. "Didn't I tell you to lay off them queens, jackass? You back that queen one more time, I'll slap the taste out yer mouth! Goddamn, it's like I'm playin' cards wit my sister's kids or some shit!"

He went shoving another paying customer, raising Rick's hackles. He was doing more jabbering than dealing. That was just no good.

Tobin put the glass down and slung his towel over his shoulder, gesturing with his chin to the center table with all the ruckus. "Ever since that feller came tearin' through here, the only business we get is bummers and jokers. He chased out all the high class clientele."

"Is that right?" Rick now turned his attention to Tyler. "Why don't you just kick his hide outta here?"

Tobin scoffed. "Easy for you to say, mister." He went back to shining beer glasses.

Rick thought he had a point. He blew smoke through his nostrils and stood up straight, now to the task at hand. He walked over to the table, silent, focused, in a cloud of cigar smoke.

Tyler was shoving another customer. "What the hell did I just tell you about them queens? You nerve-wrackin' sons a bitches make me sick! I swear I'll shoot yer tail clean off, you try that shit again!"

Rick stood there, watching. Waiting. Finally, Tyler noticed the man hovering near his table, his big dumb gob hangin' slack like an addled horse.

"Somethin' on yer mind, fella?"

Rick removed his cigar from his mouth and licked his lips, gesturing with the tobacco log to the seat Tyler's fat ass currently occupied. "Just wanted to let you know, you're sittin' in my chair."

The oaf's eyes narrowed and he swallowed hard. The second sign that he was dead in the water. His voice having lost some of its nerve, he gave an unsure smile. "Is that a fact?"

Every pair of eyes landed on Rick Grimes. The bar went silent. Not even the Victrola made a sound anymore. The former peacekeeper didn't move an inch from his spot. He simply cast his blue stare on Tyler the big mouthed oaf with certainty as sharp as a knife blade.

"That's a fact," he replied simply. He took another puff, still waiting.

Tyler looked around at his suddenly riveted and silent players before laughing nervously and returning his dull gaze to Grimes. "Well, fer a man that don't go heels, you run your mouth kinda reckless, don't ya?

Rick stared at him. That was cute. "No need to go heels to get the drop on a tub like you."

Tyler stiffened, his jaw clenching and his tubby hand inching toward his pistol. "Is that a fact…?"

Rick smoked calmly. He gave a slight nod. "That's a fact."

Tyler laughed. But he was sweating. "Ohh, mister, I'm _real_ scared…"

It was Rick's turn to smile. "Damn right you're scared," and just like that, his expression went as cold as ice and twice as deadly. He took a step forward, staring the man down into the floor. "I can see that in your eyes."

The fear was there, alright. It was usually the ones making the most racket who ended up six feet under; cowardice was seeping from this son of bitch's pores. He looked suddenly angry, and stood up from Rick's chair, his hand on his holster. It was shaking. He tried to keep eye contact, but Rick had him right where he wanted him. He strode forward, getting right into Tyler the tub's sweaty, ugly mug. "Go ahead, _skin it,_ " Rick growled, his voice rumbling low in his throat. "Skin that smoke wagon and see what happens…"

Tyler hesitated, obviously nervous, and tried to talk his way out of his predicament.

"L-look, mister, I-I'm gettin' awful tired of-!"

Rick lost his patience and slapped him clean across his foul mouth. "I'm gettin tired of your gas, now _jerk that pistol and go to work, boy._ " Again, hesitation and fear. Rick slapped him again, much harder. "I said _throw down_ , if you got the guts, you diseased horse piss."

Tyler hesitated again, both hands shaking now, his lip getting fat and red from Rick's blows. His patience utterly gone, Rick knuckle whipped him yet again, this time drawing blood. Still, Tyler was mute and obviously terrified to make a move.

Rick eyed him with disgust. "You gonna do somethin' or just stand there and bleed?"

Silence. Fear. Blood.

"No? I didn't think so." Satisfied, former sheriff Grimes plucked Tyler's pistol from his holster and tossed it across the room to Tobin's waiting hands. "Here you go, barkeep. Hang it up over the bar, will ya? A little keepsake."

Tobin nodded gratefully, obviously dead wrong about who this man was, and did as he was told.

Rick reached out and grabbed Tyler by the ear, twisting hard enough to bow the fat pissant over in pain, and began to drag him from behind the Faro table.

"Alright youngster, out you go, and don't come back. _Ever_."

He put a boot to Tyler's backside and shoved him bodily from the establishment, out onto the porch, where a shocked and impressed Miss Muldoon watched him tumble down the stairs and fall at her feet. Rick winked at her and wiped the soil of that asshole's sweat and blood from his hands. He resumed smoking his cigar, watching Tyler scamper off, and came down to their level to retrieve his hat from Shane.

"What do you say, Andrea?" He gave her a charming smile, ready to 'get in bed', now. "Thirty percent of the house take to start? That sound about right to you?"

"Hell yes!" She threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

They were in business, and business was gonna be real, _real_ good.

* * *

"Goddamn, boy!" Shane guffawed, slapping his big brother across the back proudly. "You just set us up for life! What'd I tell ya, Hersh? Can my brother do anythin' he puts his mind to or what?"

Hershel and Rick rolled their eyes, but there were grins all around as the trio strolled through town, walking on clouds. Rick felt as tall as a chapel tower, a new man already, as he thought about the money they were about to make at the O.K. Corral.

They were headed to retrieve Carl, who probably became preoccupied exploring (or following after those young women from the parfumerie, the little scamp). They paused to light three more cigars he'd secured from Tobin before he signed a deal with Andrea. She begged them off to get the place ready for a grand reopening tonight, celebrating her new business partners and good riddance to that nuisance Tyler. She said she had a traveling act cruising into town, and wanted to regale them with a grand show and an open bar, confident in their ability to make up what she'd lost over the weeks from that oaf.

The oaf, who was now stalking toward them with a shotgun in his tubby hands, still bleeding.

Rick, Shane and Hershel didn't notice him approaching, but it didn't much matter.

A sharp, yet genteel twang sounded out from the shade of the barber chair on their right, stopping the oaf dead in his tracks. " _Why, Johnny Tyler!_ You madcap! Where are you off to with that shotgun?"

The three men turned to see Tyler, looking caught like a fawn in the woods, but still gave him no mind as they also noticed none other than Doc Holiday strolling off the barber's porch into the afternoon sun. He looked as pale as a ghost, but as fit and deadly as ever.

Rick grinned wide, sauntering up to his old friend with his hand out. Doc shook it gladly, returning Rick's pleased as punch expression.

" _Shit on a stick_ , Doc Holiday!" Shane exclaimed, also shaking the sharp shooter's hand vigorously.

"Hiya, Doc," Rick uttered, genuinely happy to see the skinny Lunger again, alive and relatively well. "Damn, you are a sight for sore eyes. How the hell are ya?"

"I am as right as rain, thank you, sir. Hershel, Shane, you old dog." Doc greeted them in turn, coughing roughly as he tipped his hat. "It seems that fickle little minx, Lady Fortune has smiled on me yet again. It is always a pleasure to see my old friends."

"Doc..?" Tyler called uncertainly. If he was scared before, he looked like he'd piss himself now in the face of Doc's quick hands and the gleaming white pistols holstered under both arms. "I didn't know you's back in town."

Doc turned to Tyler nonchalantly, pursing his lips under his slick, curled mustache. "Oh, Johnny, my apologies, I forgot you were there."

Rick and the others stood by, smoking and watching good ole Doc put the fear in a man with a mere utterance, as was his way. He gave Tyler a dismissive wave.

"You may go, now."

"Leave the shotgun," Rick drawled, chewing his cigar, staring Tyler down.

Tyler swallowed hard and took a few steps toward them, making to hand it over. Rick gestured to the ground. Tyler laid it down. "T-thank you," he muttered, and scampered off again. Something told Rick that was the last they'd be seeing of Johnny Tyler.

Right on time, his boy Carl came around the bend, carrying a sack full of the supplies he'd been sent for. He took one look at the tall, graceful man standing amidst his father and uncle, his blue eyes going wide with awe. "Papa, is that…?"

Rick nodded, reaching out for his son. "Carl, this here is Doc Holiday, in the flesh. Doc, my son Carl."

Doc, not being a man made to suffer children, sighed and stood rigidly upright. "I hate you, Grimes." He then smiled and offered the young man a wink. "Hello, there, youngster. Don't get too close...I'm a Lunger, you know."

Rick chuckled and shook his head as his boy stared up at Doc in wonder and admiration. "I know, sir. I know all about you. I heard about all the gunfights you won, and-"

"Oh, really, isn't that a daisy?" Doc coughed, already anxious to be relieved of the boy's obvious idolization. Rick, Shane and Hershel merely watched the show, much to his annoyance. "Well, son...your papa should've told ya, a gunfight is no place for a boy as young as yourself. But, if you want me to show you how to kill a man in the blink of an eye, come see me sometime."

Carl gaped, speechless. Doc took a drag of his cigarette, his final word on the matter.

"Alright, alright, enough traumatizin' my kid, Holiday." Rick interrupted, giving him a thump on his thin shoulder. "You should come by the Corral, tonight. Got ourselves a Faro setup."

Doc raised his eyebrows with keen interest, glad to be moving on to more adult fare. "Is that right? I thought you'd neva sully yourself with such a trade, Grimes?" He coughed harsly again, smirking.

"Times have changed. I'm not a lawman anymore, and Faro's an honest trade, _you_ said." Rick countered slyly, easing back into their usual banter. Despite those changes, it still felt like old times somewhat, when they used to ride together as young bucks, before Doc's lungs became so compromised.

"Hush, I said no such thing. _Poker's_ an honest trade, you scallywag. Faro's just no fair. The odds always rest with the house."

"Shit, I'll take those odds any day o'the week," Shane quipped.

"We're all in, now, Doc." Hershel bragged, taking Carl by the shoulders to lead him off to the carriage and let the gunslinging trio shoot off at the mouth. "You should come by. You'll clean us out, no doubt."

"No doubt…" Doc winked at Carl again and watched them go. "He is a fine young man, Rick. Don't want him idolizin' the wrong sort, though, eh?"

"You ain't wrong about that, Doc." Rick scratched his beard thoughtfully, seeing that Doc was still up to his self-deprecating ways. "So, you'll come show us what's what tonight?"

"I wouldn't miss it." Doc thumbed his suspenders and grinned, then turned and called up to the top balcony of the building where the barber shop turned into a small bed house. "And I want you to meet someone special…my muse...darlin! Come on out and meet my good friend Rick Grimes!"

Rick and Shane both looked up to the balcony. When the muse in question emerged from the open doors, draped in fancy black lace, her smooth, dusky skin glowing in the Arizona sun, the former sheriff's heart near 'bout jumped clean out of his chest.

It was her. Rick stood riveted, falling down, down yet again for those empathetic eyes, luscious lips, and that gorgeous face. She didn't look a day older than the last time he'd seen her. The woman from the tavern in the French Quarter.

"Michonne, my love...this is Rick and Shane Grimes, my oldest friends from Dodge City," Doc carried on, also gazing up at his beloved with fiery adoration in his eyes. "Boys...this is my sweet, Creole angel, Michonne Despereaux."

Michonne.

Her name was Michonne.

And God damn it all to Hell, she was _a sight to behold_.


End file.
